


Locked In

by gaygreaser



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bickering, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hinata Is Now A Chef, Locked In, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, POV Hinata Shouyou, Quarantine, Romance, Roommates, Time Skips, What Have I Done, ive never written in first person, or in this style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaygreaser/pseuds/gaygreaser
Summary: “What do you want for dinner?” It’s much later than we usually eat, maybe a little too late, but I’m starving. I got caught up watching old volleyball tapes, fantasising about one day being able to play again. Kageyama never makes his own dinner; I don’t think he actually knows how to cook. He either waits for me to cook, orders takeaway pizza, or, when he forgets about the concept of eating three times a day, goes to bed on an empty stomach.“Mmm…” He rubs his eyes sleepily. “You?”-Or: Kageyama and Hinata are, for whatever reason, housemates and quarantine forces them to spend more time together.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio
Kudos: 117





	Locked In

The first thing that hits me is the smell.

“Bakageyama, you stink!” Revolted, I fake-vomit multiple times, earning an oddly satisfying scowl.

“Shut up, idiot,” he says, yawning, and that’s when I notice that he’s shirtless too.

“Who works out shirtless?” I grin at him. “Were you trying to show off your volleyball muscles, Kageyama?”

“Why did I agree to be your roommate? Catch.” He throws his phone at me and though surprised, my impressive reflexes enable me to catch it. He reaches for a towel hanging on the radiator and, visibly exhausted, rubs the shining sweat away. The smell doesn’t go away--obviously.

“Just take a shower,” I say, wrinkling my nose and fake vomiting again. 

“I get it.” He disappears into the bathroom, and I glance down at his phone, which illuminates. A smirk creeps onto my face as I notice a notification from “National Japanese News.” He’s subscribed to the news? Typical.

My smile drops off as soon as I realise what the headline actually says. _Coronavirus in Japan: 10 dead so far._ They mentioned the Coronavirus in my Current Affairs course--a course which I absolutely did not choose for myself because I generally tend not to hold any interest in current affairs unrelated to volleyball.

I’d dismissed it, feeling that there was no way the virus could end up in Japan of all places. I suppose I was wrong.

A feeling of foreboding creeping up my neck, I stare down at the notification until the words blur together.

“Phone,” Kageyama demands as he walks in wearing a set of white pyjamas with pink volleyballs on them. Last year I might have made fun of him for months. This year, as university roommates, he’s seen me in much more embarrassing clothes, doing much more embarrassing things. He’s got enough blackmail to last the rest of our university careers. Therefore, all I do now is mumble “haha, your pyjamas are stupid,” accepting the glare I receive and then shutting up.

I hand him the phone. “Did you know that Coronavirus came to Japan?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “I’m not sure how many cases but..." I swallow. "Ten people are dead.”

“Shit.” He frowns down at the phone, swiping at the headline and typing in his passcode. I watch him skim through the article, scrolling rapidly, worry lines deepening. Eventually, he tucks his phone into his pocket. “We’ll have to be careful, then.”

“We?” I laugh at him. “Does that mean you care about me, Kageyama-kamisama?”

“That’s one possibility. The other is that I care about myself and I know that if you get the virus, I’ll get it too. You know, considering we’re roommates. Or have you forgotten?” He shakes his head at me, procuring a hairbrush from (seemingly) thin air and combing through his wet hair. “I don’t blame you. I try to forget too.”

“Dumbass,” I mutter. “Hey, nice pyjamas, Kageyama.”

“I’ll kill you,” he says, casually, throwing a final look over his shoulder at me before wandering away into his room.

I force myself not to think about the virus as I surrender to sleep. It seems to work. I don’t dream about viruses, but about hitting pink volleyballs over nets that are twice the usual height. I soar over them anyway; I know how to fly.

*

“Japan on lockdown,” reads Kageyama in disbelief as I’m trying to enjoy my Sunday morning breakfast a couple weeks later. He glances up at me. Before I can ask, he confirms my dreaded suspicions. “We’re not allowed to leave the house. Oh, except to exercise and buy ‘essential items’,” he rectifies with air quotes.

“Am I allowed to move back in with my parents before that?” I say innocently, and he lightly slaps the back of my head.

“No, you’d be putting them at risk, stupid.” He pauses. “What happens to university?”

“I guess we get a break,” I say cheerfully. “Or…” I groan. “Online lessons. But the term is almost over anyway...I doubt it.”

“This is going to be hell,” he mutters, more to himself than me. “We’ll get so bored.”

I shake my head mockingly and pat him on the back. “Now, now, Kageyama. Only boring people get bored.” Then I dodge before he can throw something heavy at me.

*

Kageyama is usually a decent roommate. He does his own laundry and mine too when I beg hard enough, he does the dishes by hand when the dishwasher is broken (which it often is--he accuses me of “being too harsh” when I’m loading the machine but I disagree entirely), he even buys us takeaway dinners sometimes to celebrate things like the end of my exams or winning practice volleyball matches.

I’m not exactly sure what changed, but recently, he’s been a zombie. All he comes out of his room for is to eat (usually pot noodles or long-since-expired stale cereal), to shower (which I think happens maybe once every three days) or to use the toilet. Which doesn’t happen much either, since he’s not eating and he’s barely drinking.

After much thinking, I decide that he is in serious need of an intervention. I burst into his room without knocking. I expect him to immediately begin shouting, but I realise within moments that he’s asleep.

“Kageyama!” I shout, running over to his bed and pounding at the headboard. He doesn’t stir, so I start clapping and singing opera-style and out of tune--which was admittedly obnoxious, but undeniably necessary.

His eyelids don’t even flicker. We all know that desperate times call for desperate measures, so that’s when I head to the kitchen, pick up the frying pan and a large metal spoon and bang them together repeatedly as I march back to his room, kicking open the door.

He’s certainly awake now, and he doesn’t look happy. No...definitely not happy. I gulp. If this was our first year in highschool, I would have run away screaming right about now, or maybe I would’ve bowed a million times, whispering “Sorry” as many times as I could before collapsing. As it stands, I’m used to his bullshit, so I stand tall and proud, pot and pan poised in midair. I’m only slightly terrified.

“Hi-na-ta,” he growls. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m sorry!” I whimper, backing away from the bed. “I just thought you needed some help!”

“Help?” I might be imagining it, but I think his expression softens marginally. Oddly, this encourages me and I step towards the bed again, and then again, and then I sit down at his feet. 

“I’m worried about you,” I explain, trying to seem sincere. It’s hard. I’m too good at making fun of him. “And I’m bored with no one to talk to. Suga has been leaving me on ‘read.’” I shake my head. “I feel betrayed.”

He observes me for a moment, then he throws a pillow at me. “You’re so dumb.”

“I know,” I say, then hesitate. “What’s wrong? Are you scared of the virus, Bakageyama?”

“No, it’s not…” He looks away. “I feel restless. I want to play volleyball but you can’t do that socially distanced. And I feel aimless with no work from university.”

I understand, then, that he’s trying to tell me that he’s lost, that he enjoyed life before this virus arrived at our airport and now life has been ripped away from him.

“Toss to me! I can spike low balls too! Our low ceilings can’t stop me!” My hand flies up and clenches itself into a fist. 

He sends me a small, genuine smile, and I offer one back in return. It feels like a truce.

*

The truce lasts about a day, that is, until I leave my dirty underpants on the floor next to the TV. I’m aware that it’s disgusting, so I don’t much appreciate him screaming the word repeatedly at me while holding the underwear from its label and waving it at me.

“ _I get it!_ ” I shout eventually, shaking a fist at him. “Give it a rest, Kageyama! You’re unbelievable!”

“ _I’m_ unbelievable? I’m unbelievable!” he laughs disbelievingly. “Hinata, you are an _interesting_ one, you know that?”

“Just let me live in peace!” I say crossly, beginning to wish that I’d never awoken him from his two-week-long depressive slumber.

Still laughing sardonically, he leaves the house, shaking his head all the while. 

“Unbelievable,” I repeat, and I turn on the TV.

*

“My grandpa has the virus,” he says, staring down at his phone, voice monotonous. I think he's in shock.

“Shit,” I say, blood freezing over. He’s slumped over on the couch, his posture even worse than it usually is. I go and sit down next to him, and I put a comforting arm around him. “I’m sorry, Kageyama. Is there anything we can do? Is he in the hospital now? I’m sure they’ll take the best care of him.” The words rush out breathlessly in my rush to make him feel better, to reassure him that all is not already lost.

He looks at me, and he has this weirdly intense look in his eye like he always gets when he’s setting a ball in a quick-set or serving a killer-serve during a match. Maybe he’s seeing me for the first time or something equally dramatic. 

“Thanks, Hinata,” he says, and, defying all my expectations, he leans against me and sighs. I watch him as he flicks open the Messaging app and looks up “Grandpa” in the contacts section. Then I watch him as he taps out a concerned, loving text, ending with “I miss you, Grandpa. Please get well soon so I can introduce you to my new favourite flavour of milk. You won’t believe what weird flavours they have in this cafeteria.”

My eyes flit to his face, and that look of intensity is still there, this time unmistakably joined by love.

Maybe I’m seeing him for the first time, too. 

*

I leave my underwear next to the TV again, but he barely spares it a glance. His eyebrows are furrowed and he is glued to his phone constantly. Sometimes I hear a sharp gasp come from the couch he’s sprawled on and my heart skips a terrified beat. Then he lets out a sigh of relief and I let myself relax. It goes on like this for a while, and I become simultaneously lethargic without him for company, and worried that whatever news we end up receiving will wreck him further. 

Still, I don’t bother him, and I stare at him day in and day out, biting his lip till it bleeds and staring down at his phone as if begging the universe to send him a sign.

*

“My mom just texted me,” he says shakily, a smile spreading across his face and lighting him up. “My grandpa’s out of the hospital. Not showing any more symptoms.” He looks up. “The doctors say he’s going to be okay.”

Somehow, practically against my own will, I fly into his arms and squeeze him until he’s pushing me away with muffled complaints. I step away and beam at him, and I’m rewarded with a fond smirk. 

“I feel oddly unstoppable,” he remarks, still looking straight at me. “Do you want to go out and do something? I think lockdown rules are loosening.”

“Yeah,” I say, embarrassed at how excited I sound. “Let’s play volleyball and get ice cream.”

“Volleyball? You remember that it’s a team sport that is usually played indoors, and that we’re currently in the middle of an international pandemic?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“We can figure something out outdoors with just us two,” I grumble. “And don’t forget the ice cream part.” 

“Personally, I prefer milk,” he says, shrugging on his coat and throwing his phone down onto the couch. I stick my tongue out at him as I pick up one of our various, omnipresent Mikasa volleyballs, and he rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, then,” I say, opening the door and, as the gentleman I am, gesturing for him to go out before me. He does, looking pleased but puzzled. 

“Ladies first,” I explain, and he slaps the back of my head playfully. I think of that volleyball match in our first year, when I set the ball into the back of his head, and I gulp. Even now, reliving that moment of sheer horror is mildly traumatising.

“I’ll race you,” he interrupts my train of thought. “To that big plot of land where we always practice passing.”

I’m already running before he’s finished his sentence, and he chases me, shouting something dumb about “unfair advantages” and “headstarts.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you to save your breath while you're running?” I ask conversationally.

I think his anger at my never-faltering nonchalance is what fuels him to overtake me. For the first time in a while, he beats me.

I sulk, but then I win our pathetic attempt at a 1-on-1 volleyball match (possibly because he wasn’t trying) and he pays for my ice cream, so the day ends in what I’d consider a perfect equilibrium.

*

For the past week, we’ve stayed mostly indoors, which has given me plenty of time to observe and analyse his bizarre body language.

I might be imagining it; I have no idea. But it seems that every time I turn to him to ask a question or demand that he turns the volume of the TV down or let him know that I’m making dinner, he’s already looking at me. And then when he notices me looking curiously back at him, he looks away, cheeks pink as if he’s just climbed out of our personal hot tub (we don’t really have our own hot tub, as much as I’ve tried to reason with him and convince him that it’s a household necessity).

“Kageyama,” I shout today, wandering into the living room with an apron on. He turns off the TV and clambers up on his knees as he turns towards me, leaning over the couch’s headrest. 

“Yeah?” he yawns, one eye closed, the other peeking up at me.

“What do you want for dinner?” It’s much later than we usually eat, maybe a little too late, but I’m starving. I got caught up watching old volleyball tapes, fantasising about one day being able to play again. Kageyama never makes his own dinner; I don’t think he actually knows how to cook. He either waits for me to cook, orders takeaway pizza, or, when he forgets about the concept of eating three times a day, goes to bed on an empty stomach.

“Mmm…” He rubs his eyes sleepily. “You?”

I gape at him for a solid half-second, wondering whether I’d possibly misheard him.

“What did you say?” I ask finally, choosing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He shrugs. “I dunno. Make whatever. I’m tired.”

I make brown rice topped with eggs and vegetables, too confused to attempt anything harder, but when I go back in to hand him his bowl, his eyes are locked firmly shut, his head is slouched over the headrest and his mouth is wide open. He’s drooling a little.

Exasperated, I put the bowl on the table in front of him and settle down beside him to enjoy my own meal in silence. 

When I finish, I push his hair away from his face, contemplating him for a few moments. His impassive, sleeping face, his sharp features and permanent scowl, all stare back at me.

When I think about what he said--“ _You_ ”--my heart jumps into my throat. I don’t know what he meant, but I decide, eventually, that he had clearly been exhausted, and therefore, clearly had no idea what he was talking about.

 _Yes,_ I think, dozing off with my hands wrapped firmly around my pillow, _He won’t remember a thing in the morning._

*

“Hinata,” he calls loudly. “Come help. I ordered shopping yesterday. I got a text saying it’s downstairs. I think they left it on the apartment porch.” 

“Bakageyama,” I say, stumbling into the living room with my toothbrush still stuck in my mouth, pressed against my left cheek. I take it out and spit into the kitchen sink, then I put it back in. “Why would you order groceries without consulting me when I’m the only one in this house who knows how to cook?”

“Because I know how to eat?” he says, looking at me as if I’m the stupid one. “I know what kinds of food you make, Hinata, and I, unlike you, have common sense.”

“Didn’t you fail the entrance exam for Shiratorizawa?” I say, scratching my head and feigning deep concentration.

He grabs me in a headlock and holds there until his phone vibrates with a text once again requesting that he comes and collects the recently delivered shopping.

“Come on, then.” He marches towards the door, and slams it behind him once I’m through.

“Hope you have your keys,” I call out. “Because I don’t! And I don’t want us to end up at a locksmith with pyjamas on! Don’t know about you but I have better things to do!”

Naturally, he ignores me.

Despite that weird night a couple weeks ago when he’d requested “me” for dinner, he’s been acting in the exact same way that he always acts. You know--like a tsundere.

In all seriousness, I was beginning to wonder whether I’d imagined the scene entirely. Perhaps I’d been so tired out from watching video-Oikawa flawlessly performing superhuman serves all day that I’d been delirious.

So I asked him about it (as one does), and instead of looking at me as if I’d lost my mind, he went bright red and pretended he hadn’t heard. 

He passes me about half the bags, and I carry them up the stairs, then I wait impatiently for him, tapping my foot, and looking down at my watch-less wrist. I knew I should have brought my own keys. And maybe I would have remembered, provided I hadn’t been rushed out of the house mid-toothbrushing-session! 

Nevertheless, I sigh deeply and lean against our door.

If Kageyama really said _that--_ was that a confession? I’d never been formally confessed to before, but I’d seen it happen in my first year, just before volleyball matches against Aoba Johsai. Oikawa was usually approached by a girl or three, always clutching delicate pink letters wrapped in ribbon or littered with heart stickers. Once, I made the imbecilic decision to stick around and personally witness his response. He scratched the back of his head, adopting a sheepish but kind smile, shaking his head, but eventually handing the letter back to the girl. He talked for a few moments and, to finish, gave her a little dramatic bow. She didn’t seem upset at all; if anything, she looked happier than when she’d stepped up to him, even though it seemed like a clear-cut rejection to me.

I had felt ridiculously jealous, and honestly, my fists still ball up whenever I think about it. She’d been so cute! And he’d rejected her with such practiced ease!

Kageyama hadn’t said anything with a letter in hand. He hadn’t even uttered the words, “I like you.” Come to think of it, he’s not even a girl. I’ve never viewed him in a romantic light--especially not before we were quarantined together. I don’t think he ever saw me like that either. In fact, maybe that’s not even what he meant. I could be completely misinterpreting his words. I must be.

But then again, we’ve been spending so much time together. Every morning when I wake up, right after I brush my teeth and use the toilet, I’m immediately faced with Kageyama. Even before lockdown, he would usually be gone by the time I’d woken up-- his lectures were usually in the early morning, and when they weren’t, he liked to go for runs before the rest of the world was awake.

He’s gotten lazier now. Probably because lockdown has removed the sense of urgency that used to envelop our everyday lives. 

Now I saunter into the living room in the mornings and he’s there, watching TV, or reading manga, or lying on the living room couch tossing a volleyball up and down, over and over. I occasionally try to follow the ball with my eyes; it’s hypnotising. 

At night, I cook for Kageyama, and we eat together. We talk-- usually about volleyball, sometimes about how good the food is, mostly about our past and our present and our constantly looming future. 

In the midday, the in-between, we either go out together to run or toss a ball back and forth, or we strategise together about future volleyball matches, or we play board games, or Skype old friends, or clean the house. Rarely, we go into our separate rooms, watching old volleyball videos or just killing time until our next meal. Those hours are lonely. I try to imagine living alone, and I feel small and anxious. I try to imagine living with that girl I enviously watched Oikawa reject, and I wince. I can't imagine living with anyone but Kageyama.

Somehow, he's grown on me. More than grown on me--I like his presence in my life. I like him. True, I’ve considered him my best friend for a few years--but I never fully registered just how much I _like him._

Kageyama finally arrives, shopping bags slung over his shoulders. He would make a convincing Santa Claus. I notice, irritated, that he’d carried more bags up than I had--I’d only had five, he had had six. _1-0 to Kageyama Tobio._

Putting down the bags with a momentary glance at me, he rummages around his bag for his keys and snatches them out. Right when he’s about to unlock the door, I grab his arm and pull it away, then I twist the key out of the lock and tuck it in my pyjama pocket. I take my toothbrush out of my mouth and tuck it away too. 

“Idiot, what are you--” He falls silent and meets my gaze. “What?”

“Kageyama, do you like me?” I cringe. I feel like a junior high student, confessing to a boy I’ve been admiring from afar for months. I feel like the girl confessing to Oikawa. Thank _God_ I’m not confessing to Oikawa. In reality, I’m not confessing at all; I’m demanding a confession.

He doesn’t look away. “What makes you think that?”

“You know what does,” I say, folding my arms. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I’m wearing a matching top-and-bottoms pyjama set decorated with little red fire trucks. I wonder whether he’s having trouble taking me seriously. “Don’t even try to lie to me.”

“And if I did?” he inquires, voice steady, though I can see his cheeks faintly reddening.

“I don’t think I’d mind,” I murmur, surprising myself, and then he’s kissing me, hands wrapped around my waist as he leans down, groceries abruptly forgotten. 

Pulling away, I gasp desperately for air and subconsciously reach into my pocket for the key, unlocking the door and kicking it open. My toothbrush falls out and lands bristles-down onto our welcome mat. I leave it there.

He drags the bags in and leaves them by the entrance as he slams the door shut behind him.

He holds me by the front of my fire-truck pyjama shirt and kisses me passionately. Together, we stumble towards the couch. I grab him by the hair and pull him closer.

“Hey, Kageyama,” I say when we draw away from each other, our breaths coming out in short, frantic bursts. “I’m glad we don’t have to socially distance from each other. This would be very much illegal if we did. You know we could get arrested.”

“Shut up, idiot,” he says, ready to kiss me again. Out of nowhere, he sits up and sprints back to the groceries, muttering to himself. I watch him, amused but lost.

“Chicken,” he gasps. “It’s not supposed to be out of the fridge for too long.”

I stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, do you want to die of a bacterial infection?” he snaps. He scrabbles through each bag, dropping pineapples and sacks of apples on the floor surrounding him until he finds what he’s looking for. He triumphantly holds up the double pack of chicken breasts.

“You make me want to rip my brains out!” I call.

“I wish I’d just forgotten about the chicken and let you poison yourself!” he shouts back.

I smile contentedly, and think about how strange it is that nothing’s _really_ changed about our relationship, except that now I like the taste of his lips and I wouldn’t mind being locked away in this tiny apartment in Tokyo with him forever, or at least for a few more months.

**Author's Note:**

> help


End file.
